Bartimaeus: The Golem’s Eye

by Jonathan Stroud

  “Sounds rather rude to me,” Kitty said.

  “You’re so very young, love,” her mother said. “No, she was a great woman.”

  One day, when Kitty was ten years old, she came home from school to find her mother sitting tearfully in the kitchen.

  “Mum! What’s the matter?”

  “It’s nothing. Well, what am I saying?—I am hurt a little. Kitty, I am afraid … I am afraid that I have been made redundant. Oh dear, what are we going to tell your father?”

  Kitty sat her mother down, made her a pot of tea, and brought her a biscuit. Over much snuffling, sipping, and sighing, the truth came out. Old Mr. Palmer had retired. His firm had been acquired by a trio of magicians, who disliked having ordinary commoners on their staff; they had brought in new personnel and sacked half the original employees, including Kitty’s mother.

  “But they can’t do that,” Kitty had protested.

  “Of course they can. It’s their right. They protect the country, make us the greatest nation in the world; they have many privileges”—her mother dabbed at her eyes and took another slurp of tea—“but even so, it is a little hurtful, after so many years….”

  Hurtful or not, that was the last day that Kitty’s mother worked at Palmer’s. A few weeks later, her friend Mrs. Hyrnek, who had also been dismissed, got her a job as a cleaner in a printing works, and life resumed its structured course.

  But Kitty didn’t forget.

  Kitty’s parents were avid readers of The Times, which brought daily news of the army’s latest victories. For years, it seemed, the wars had been going well; the Empire’s territories expanded by the season, and the world’s wealth was flowing back into the capital. But this success came at a price, and the paper continually advised all readers to be on the lookout for spies and saboteurs from enemy states, who might be living in ordinary neighborhoods, while all the time quietly working on wicked plots to destabilize the nation.

  “You keep your eyes open, Kitty,” her mother advised. “No one takes heed of a girl like you. You never know, you might see something.”

  “Especially around here,” her father added, sourly. “In Balham.”

  The area where Kitty lived was famous for its Czech community, which was long established. The high street had several little borscht cafes, marked by their thick net curtains and colorful flowerpots on the sills. Tanned old gentlemen with drooping white mustaches played chess and skittles in the streets outside the bars, and many of the local firms were owned by the grandchildren of the émigrés who had come to England back in Gladstone’s time.

  Flourishing though the area was (it contained several important printing firms, including the noted Hyrnek and Sons), its strong European identity drew the constant attention of the Night Police. As she grew older, Kitty became used to witnessing daytime raids, with patrols of gray-uniformed officers breaking down doors and throwing belongings into the street. Sometimes young men were taken away in vans; on other occasions the families were left intact, to piece together the wreckage of their homes. Kitty always found these scenes upsetting, despite her father’s reassurances.

  “The police must maintain a presence,” he insisted. “Keep troublemakers on their toes. Believe me, Kitty, they wouldn’t act without good intelligence on the matter.”

  “But, Dad, those were friends of Mr. Hyrnek.”

  A grunt. “He should pick his pals more carefully then, shouldn’t he?”

  Kitty’s father was in fact always civil to Mr. Hyrnek, whose wife had, after all, gotten Kitty’s mother a new job. The Hyrneks were a prominent local family, whose business was patronized by many magicians. Their printing works occupied a large site close to Kitty’s house, and provided employment for many people of the area. Despite this, the Hyrneks never seemed especially well-off; they lived in a big, sprawling, rundown house set a little back from the road, behind an overgrown garden of long grass and laurel bushes. In time, Kitty came to know it well, thanks to her friendship with Jakob, the youngest of the Hyrnek sons.

  Kitty was tall for her age and growing taller, slender beneath her baggy school jersey and wide-legged trousers, stronger than she looked, too. More than one boy had regretted a facetious comment to her face; Kitty did not waste words when a punch would do. Her hair was dark brown, veering to black, and straight, except at the ends, where it had a tendency to curl in an unruly fashion. She wore it shorter than the other girls, midway down her neck.

  Kitty had dark eyes and heavy black brows. Her face openly reflected her opinions, and since opinions came thick and fast to Kitty, her eyebrows and mouth were in constant motion.

  “Your face is never the same twice,” Jakob had said. “Er—that’s a compliment!” he added hastily, when Kitty glowered at him.

  They sat together in the same classrooms for several years, learning what they could from the mixed bag of disciplines on offer to the common children. Crafts were encouraged, since their futures lay in the factories and workshops of the city; they learned pottery, woodcutting, metalwork, and simple mathematics. Technical drawing, needlepoint, and cookery were also taught, and for those like Kitty, who enjoyed words, reading and writing were on offer, too, with the proviso that this skill would one day be properly employed, perhaps in a secretarial career.

  History was another important subject; daily, they received instruction in the glorious development of the British State. Kitty enjoyed these lessons, which featured many stories of magic and far-off lands, but couldn’t help sensing certain limitations in what they were being taught. Often she would put up her hand.

  “Yes, Kitty, what is it this time?” Her teachers’ tones often displayed a slight weariness, which they did their best to disguise.

  “Please, sir, tell us more about the government that Mr. Gladstone overthrew. You say it had a parliament already.We’ve got a parliament now. So why was the old one so wicked?”

  “Well, Kitty, if you’d been listening properly, you’d have heard me say that the Old Parliament was not wicked so much as weak. It was run by ordinary people, like you and me, who did not have any magical powers. Imagine that! Of course, that meant that they were constantly getting harassed by other, stronger countries, and there was nothing they could do to stop it. Now, which was the most dangerous foreign nation in those days … let me see now … Jakob?”

  “Don’t know, sir.”

  “Speak up, boy, don’t mumble! Well, I’m surprised to hear you say that, Jakob, you of all people. It was the Holy Roman Empire, of course. Your ancestors! The Czech Emperor ruled most of Europe from his castle in Prague; he was so fat he sat on a wheeled throne of steel and gold and was pulled about the corridors by a single bone-white ox. When he wished to leave the castle, they had to lower him out by reinforced pulley. He kept an aviary of parakeets and shot a different colored one each night for his supper. Yes, you may well be disgusted, children. That was the kind of man who ruled Europe in those days, and our Old Parliament was helpless against him. He governed a terrible assembly of magicians, who were wicked and corrupt and whose leader, Hans Meyrink, is said to have been a vampire. Their soldiers rampaged—yes, Kitty what is it now?”

  “Well, sir, if the Old Parliament was so incompetent, how come the fat Emperor never invaded Britain, because he didn’t, did he, sir? And why—”

  “I can answer only one question at a time, Kitty, I’m not a magician! Britain was lucky, that’s all. Prague was always slow to act; the Emperor spent much of his time drinking beer and engaging in terrible debauchery. But he would have turned his evil gaze to London eventually, believe you me. Fortunately for us, there were a few magicians in London in those days, to whom the poor powerless ministers sometimes came for advice. And one of them was Mr. Gladstone. He saw the dangers of our situation and decided on a preemptive strike. Can you remember what he did, children? Yes—Sylvester?”

  “He persuaded the ministers to hand over control to him, sir. He went in to see them one evening and talked so cleverly that they
elected him Prime Minister there and then.”

  “That’s right, good boy, Sylvester, you’ll get a star. Yes, it was the Night of the Long Counsel. After a lengthy debate in Parliament, Gladstone’s eloquence won the day and the ministers unanimously resigned in his favor. He organized a defensive attack on Prague the following year, and overthrew the Emperor. Yes, Abigail?”

  “Did he free the parakeets, sir?”

  “I’m sure he did. Gladstone was a very kind man. He was sober and moderate in all his tastes and wore the same starched shirt each day, except on Sundays, when his mother cleaned it for him. After that, London’s power increased, while Prague’s diminished. And as Jakob might realize, if he weren’t slumped so rudely in his seat, that was when many Czech citizens, like his family, immigrated to Britain. Many of Prague’s best magicians came, too, and helped us create the modern State. Now, perhaps—”

  “But I thought you said the Czech magicians were all wicked and corrupt, sir.”

  “Well, I expect all the wicked ones were killed, don’t you, Kitty? The others were just misguided and saw the error of their ways. Now there’s the bell! Lunchtime! And no, Kitty, I’m not going to answer any more questions just now. Everyone stand up, put your chairs under your desks, and please leave quietly!”

  After such discussions in school, Jakob was frequently morose, but his moodiness rarely lasted long. He was a cheerful and energetic soul, slight and dark-haired, with an open, impudent face. He liked games, and from an early age spent many hours with Kitty, playing in the long grass of his parents’ garden. They kicked footballs, practiced archery, improvised cricket, and generally kept out of the way of his large and boisterous family.

  Nominally, Mr. Hyrnek was the head of the household, but in practice, he, like everyone else, was dominated by his wife, Mrs. Hyrnek. A bustling bundle of maternal energy, all broad shoulders and capacious bosom, she sailed around the house like a galleon blown by an erratic wind, forever uttering raucous whoops of laughter, or calling out Czech curses after her four unruly sons. Jakob’s elder brothers, Karel, Robert, and Alfred, had all inherited their mother’s imposing physique, and their size, strength, and deep, resounding voices always awed Kitty into silence whenever they came near. Mr. Hyrnek was like Jakob, small and slight, but with leathery skin that reminded Kitty of a shriveled apple’s. He smoked a curved, rowan-wood pipe that left wreaths of sweet smoke hanging around the house and garden.

  Jakob was very proud of his father.

  “He’s brilliant,” he told Kitty, as they rested under a tree after a game of fives against the side wall of the house. “No one else can do what he does with parchment and leather. You should see the miniature spell-pamphlets he’s been working on lately—they’re embossed in gold filigree in the old Prague style, but reduced to the tiniest scale! He works in little outlines of animals and flowers, in perfect detail, then embeds tiny pieces of ivory and precious stones inside. Only Dad can do stuff like that.”

  “They must cost a fortune when he’s finished,” Kitty said.

  Jakob spat out a grass shoot he was chewing. “You’re joking, of course,” he said flatly. “The magicians don’t pay him what they should. Never do. He can barely keep the factory working. Look at all that—” He nodded up at the body of the house, with its slates skew-whiff on the roof, the shutters crooked and ingrained with dirt, the paint peeling on the veranda door. “Think we should be living in a place like this? Come off it!”

  “It’s a lot bigger than my house,” Kitty observed.

  “Hyrnek’s is the second biggest printer in London,” Jakob said. “Only Jaroslav’s is bigger. And they just churn stuff out, ordinary leather bindings, annual almanacs, and indexes, nothing special. It’s we who deal in the delicate work, the real craft. That’s why so many magicians come to us when they want their best books bound and personalized; they love the unique, luxurious touch. Last week, Dad finished a cover that had a pentacle fashioned in tiny diamonds on the front. Ludicrous, but there you go; that’s what the woman wanted.”

  “Why don’t the magicians pay your dad properly? You’d think they’d worry he’d stop doing everything so well, make it lousy quality.”

  “My dad’s too proud for that. But the real point is they’ve got him over a barrel. He’s got to behave, or they’ll close us down, give the business to someone else. We’re Czechs, remember; suspicious customers. Can’t be trusted, even though the Hyrneks have been in London for a hundred and fifty years.”

  “What?” Kitty was outraged. “That’s ridiculous! Of course they trust you—they’d throw you out of the country, otherwise.”

  “They tolerate us because they need our skill. But what with all the trouble on the Continent, they watch us all the time, in case we’re in league with spies. There’s a permanent search sphere operating in Dad’s factory, for instance; and Karel and Robert are always being followed. We’ve had four police raids in the last two years. The last time, they turned the house upside down. Grandmama was taking a bath; they dumped her out in the street in her old tin tub.”

  “How awful.” Kitty threw the cricket ball high into the air and caught it in an outstretched palm.

  “Well. That’s magicians for you. We hate them, but what can you do? What’s the matter? You’re twisting your lip. That means something’s bothering you.”

  Kitty untwisted her lip hurriedly. “I was just thinking. You hate the magicians, but your whole family supports them: your dad, your brothers working in his workshop. Everything you make goes to them, one way or another. And yet they treat you so badly. It doesn’t seem right. Why doesn’t your family do something else?”

  Jakob grinned ruefully. “My dad’s got a saying: ‘The safest place to swim is right behind the shark.’We make the magicians beautiful things and that makes them happy. It means they keep off our backs—just about. If we didn’t do that, what would happen? They’d be on us in a flash. You’re frowning again.”

  Kitty was not sure she approved. “But if you don’t like the magicians, you shouldn’t cooperate with them,” she persisted. “It’s morally wrong.”

  “What?” Jakob kicked out at her leg with genuine irritation. “Don’t give me that! Your parents cooperate with them. Everyone does. There’s no alternative, is there? If you don’t, the police—or something worse—pays a visit in the night and spirits you away. There’s no alternative to cooperation—is there? Is there?”

  “S’pose not.”

  “No, there isn’t. Not unless you want to end up dead.”

  5

  The tragedy had occurred when Kitty was thirteen years old.

  It was high summer. There was no school. The sun shone on the terrace tops; birds trilled, light spilled into the house. Her father hummed as he stood before the mirror, adjusting his tie. Her mother left her an iced bun for her breakfast, waiting in the fridge.

  Jakob had called on Kitty early. She opened the door to find him flourishing his bat.

  “Cricket,” he said. “It’s perfect for it. We can go to the posh park. Everyone will be at work, so there’ll be no one there to clear us out.”

  “All right,” Kitty said. “But I’m batting. Wait till I get my shoes.”

  The park stretched to the west of Balham, away from the factories and shops. It began as a rough area of waste ground, covered with bricks, thistles, and old rusted sections of barbed wire. Jakob and Kitty, and many other children, played there regularly. But if you followed the ground west, and clambered over an old metal bridge above a railway, you found the park becoming increasingly pleasant, with spreading beech trees, shady walks and lakes where wild ducks swam, all dotted across a great sward of smooth green grass. Beyond was a wide road, where a row of large houses, hidden by high walls, marked the presence of magicians.

  Commoners were not encouraged to enter the pleasant side of the park; stories were told in the playgrounds of children who had gone there for a dare, and never come back. Kitty did not exactly believe these tales,
and she and Jakob had once or twice crossed the metal bridge and ventured out as far as the lakes. On one occasion a well-dressed gentleman with a long black beard had shouted at them across the water, to which Jakob responded with an eloquent gesture. The gentleman himself did not appear to respond, but his companion, whom they had not previously observed—a person very short and indistinct—had set off running around the side of the lake toward them with surprising haste. Kitty and Jakob had only just made good their escape.

  But usually, when they looked across the railway line, the forbidden side of the park was empty. It was a shame to let it go to waste, especially on such a delightful day when all magicians would be at work. Kitty and Jakob made their way there at good speed.

  Their heels drummed on the tarmac surface of the metal bridge.

  “No one about,” Jakob said. “Told you.”

  “Is that someone?” Kitty shielded her eyes and peered out toward a circle of beeches, partly obscured by the bright sun. “By that tree? I can’t quite make it out.”

  “Where? No…. It’s just shadows. If you’re chicken, we’ll go over by that wall. It’ll hide us from the houses across the road.”

  He ran across the path and on to the thick green grass, bouncing the ball skillfully on the flat surface of the bat as he went. Kitty followed with more caution. A high brick wall bounded the opposite side of the park; beyond it lay the broad avenue, studded with magicians’ mansions. It was true that the center of the grass was uncomfortably exposed, overlooked by the black windows of the houses’ upper stories; it was also true that if they hugged close to the wall it would shield them from this view. But this meant crossing the whole breadth of the park, far from the metal bridge, which Kitty thought unwise. But it was a lovely day and there was no one about, and she let herself run after Jakob, feeling the breeze drift against her limbs, enjoying the expanse of blue sky.

  Jakob came to a halt a few meters from the wall beside a silvered drinking fountain. He tossed the ball into the air and thwacked it straight up to an almighty height. “Here’ll do,” he said, as he waited for the ball to return. “This is the stumps. I’m in bat.”